The Substance of a LateNight Phone Call
by bj
Summary: The long distance charges must be horrible. Nina and Carl, post "Fear Itself."


it's: the substance of a late-night phone call  
by: bj  
in sum: the long distance charges must be horrible.  
label: nina. nina/carl.  
rating: pg.  
sissies: "fear itself."  
legalities: don't own, don't sue.  
i say: kind of a post-ep.  
muse: "the substance of a late-night phone call" by everette maddox. .  
you say: all comments appreciated, answered, and archived. allcanadiangirl@lycos.com.

  
**the substance of a late-night phone call**

When the phone rings at ten on Thursday she knows it's him before she picks up.

"Hello?" she says.

"Hi," he says. "It's me," he says.

"Hi, Carl," she says. She sounds tired and for once she doesn't try to hide it from him. It doesn't matter now, she doesn't need to put on the perky happy perfect come home because I am here voice. She doesn't need to sound like she's smiling.

"Hi," he says again. And he sounds tired too.

"You sound sad," she says, and says _damn_ to herself. She wants to be bitter.

He is silent for a moment. Then, "How's Sam?" And he adds, "How're you?"

She wants to be angry. "He's good, he misses you. He's asleep right now." She doesn't say anything about herself. She doesn't know. She has no idea how she is, how she continues being inside of all the things that are going on out there, the things he is doing, has done, she has no idea how she's capable of existing when this is happening to her.

"That's good," he says. "I'm in Miami," he says. "I can practically see Cuba from my hotel room balcony."

She wants to be cold. "Make sure you bring postcards," she says. "Sam loves the ocean."

"Yeah," he says. "Nina," he says. "How are you?"

He sounds desperate. She wants to be cruel. She wants so badly to be brutal and merciless and hateful. She wants to be vindictive. She presses her fingers to her mouth and cries a little. "I don't know," she says.

He is quiet, his breath over the phone line and the harsh echo of her crying. "Did you love him?" she says, and that's not the question she wants to ask at all.

"Neen," he says. He's crying too, he's tired too and he's crying too and he's in Miami.

She smiles against her fingers. "Do you, Carl. Do you love me?"  
  
This is the question.

He chokes. "Neen," he says. "I love you."

And she thinks for a moment, the spite in her tells her for a moment that he's still lying, he's lying again.

"I love you, Nina," he says. She believes it.

She says to herself _he's not lying_ and she presses her palm to her forehead. "But not."

"No," he says. "Not like I'm supposed to."

That's how she is, she thinks, that's how she is. "That's okay, Carl," she says.

He laughs, and there is her bitterness, it's in Miami. "Okay," he says.

"Yes," she says. "Yes." Her voice is forceful. "I'm not, Carl. I'm angry," she says, and she knows she is, she wants to be angry and she is. "But I love you, and." She shakes her head. She cannot be any of the other things.

Her mother had the habit of pressing her knuckles against her mouth when she was upset, and Nina does it too, she feels her wedding ring hard on her upper lip, she wonders if Carl kept his on when—

"Nina," he says. He sounds broken, he sounds like her questions and he sounds like her.

"Just come home," she says. "Come home and we'll." She laughs, she says, "We'll have ice cream and it'll be okay."

There is a long silence, a long silence. She rests her hand on the kitchen counter, she listens to the phone buzz and click faintly. She thinks of his hands on her breasts, on her hips, how he always seemed to be away from himself even when he was inside her. The long distance charges, she thinks, must be horrible.

"It's not going to go away," he says. "I can't—Nina, I'm just—"

She pushes hard on the counter, as if pressing his mouth shut. "I know, Carl," she says. "Just come home. It's okay."

She doesn't know if she's deluding herself, if she thinks she can really pretend it didn't happen, she doesn't know if she wants to do that. She just. She wants him to come home. "Just come home," she says again, she says it quietly.

He sighs, he sighs hard, and she can hear it echo static between Everwood and Miami. "I'm on my way," he says. "A week Tuesday," he says.

"Rocky road," she says. "I'll get some rocky road."

"No," he says, and she hears the strain of irony in his voice. "Marble," he says. "Chocolate and vanilla marble."

"Okay," she says, laughing a little. "Okay. Marble it is."

She wonders how he is in Miami, how he's able to be there and she is here, she is, this is all happening and it's happening to her. She tells herself _it's happening to him too_ and she wants to kiss him, wants to smooth his hair down and hold him. She thinks it's probably wrong to want to comfort him and throttle him at the same time.

"I have to go," he says faintly. He says, "I have a lot to do before they break the shackles. Early morning tomorrow."

"Yeah," she says. "Okay."

He keeps breathing on the line. "Good night, Neen."

"Night, Carl."

"I love you."

She smiles, she smiles really and she feels her salt-stiff skin stretching. "I love you too."

"A week Tuesday."

"A week from Tuesday."

The disconnection echoes tinnily. She has never in her life felt so far from home.

  
End. 


End file.
